Escape Routes
by LizBee
Summary: AU from The Beekeeper's Apprentice: Donleavy carries out her original plan of abducting Russell.


**Title**: Escape Routes  
**Author**: LizBee  
**Summary**: AU from The Beekeeper's Apprentice: Donleavy carries out her original plan of kidnapping Russell.  
**Warnings**: Fade-to-black femmeslash, character death, a tentacle metaphor.   
**Fandom**: Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes)  
**Spoilers**: The Beekeeper's Apprentice  
**Disclaimer**: Russell and Donleavy are the property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle.  
**Notes**: With thanks to Branwyn, Prof. Pangaea and Melwil for their most excellent beta work. Extra thanks for Branwyn, who put the idea in my head, and then made encouraging noises until I actually finished it. Blame her.

**Escape Routes**  
By LizBee

_"I decided to kidnap Miss Russell, take her to a place where you would not find her, and play with you, in public, over a prolonged period of time.  
_- Patricia Donleavy in _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_

It was like seeing her for the first time. In the semi-darkness, she looked skeletal, a parody of her former lean self. But one hand lingered possessively on my arm, and I couldn't forget that she was still a danger to me.

"You're dying, aren't you," I said.

She opened her eyes. "Yes."

"Good."

Her hand tightened on my arm, and she said nothing.

They took me from the train at gunpoint. I made three escape attempts as we journeyed north, until my captors resorted to drugging me. They were apparently under orders to keep me whole and healthy; I decided to find that reassuring.

I never knew how long I spent in the chemical haze, but I was alone when I regained consciousness, in a comfortable bedroom that opened onto a small parlour that was lined with bookshelves. There was a small, functional bathroom and nothing else. The windows were high and narrow, and every door was locked.

The wardrobe was full of well-made, practical clothes in my size; some of the books were from my own rooms. I had hairbrushes and combs, but no hairpins, or any other items that could be used to pick a lock. They were thorough, and clever, and they were prepared for ingenuity.

My captors brought me plain food and water, in small portions that kept me slightly hungry and lethargic all the time. They always came in pairs, and there was always a gun trained at my head. The name _Sherlock Holmes_ never passed their lips, but I had no doubt that my abduction was truly an attack on my mentor. He would see the trail I'd left behind in my escape attempts, he would read the signs and find me.

I was content, in those first days, to bide my time and wait for rescue.

Courage was easy by daylight.

At night, the Dream came for me, endlessly twisting itself into new forms. Memory mingled with fear, and I dreaded sleep.

When she came for me, after a week in the house, ten days after I'd regained consciousness, it was early in the morning, and I was still sick and shaking from that night's visitation. She stood over me, her face unreadable.

"I'd heard you suffered from nightmares," she said.

I was struggling for breath, and some minutes passed before I could say, "I wasn't expecting it to be you."

She smiled.

"Of course not."

She left my bedroom, and I heard her sit down in the outer room. For a moment I thought of ignoring her, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I went to dress.

When I emerged, it was to find breakfast waiting for me - not porridge and plain milk, as I'd had for the last seven days, but an old-fashioned spread that began with kedgeree and ended with thickly buttered toast. And coffee, and tea, and fresh milk.

She let me eat in silence, and then said, "Your aunt is very worried about you."

I put my cup down.

"She has publicly denounced Sherlock Holmes, for exposing you to danger and leaving you vulnerable." She took a sip of her coffee. "Her concern is very touching. And her accusations are working their way through England. Soon the papers will forget that you are an heiress, and discover that you were Sherlock Holmes's protégée." There was a ghost of a smile in her eyes. "I'm rather looking forward to it."

She had always been hard, but I'd never seen needless cruelty before. I had a thousand questions about Holmes, but I couldn't, at that point, give her the satisfaction of asking them. And she knew that, which was torturous.

She cut off a lock of my hair before she left. I didn't have to ask why.

The Dream came for me that night, and I almost welcomed the release it offered.

I took to counting the days, scratching marks into a panel of wood beside my bed. My guards sometimes brought me newspapers, with key articles circled in red. Headlines such as _Missing Heiress Feared Dead_ eventually gave way to sensational tales about Holmes, even as the story slipped towards the back pages.

It was my only contact with Holmes, and I read the articles again and again. Then I read the agony columns, and the rest of the papers. After a few days, I could have recited the _Times_ from memory. But Holmes remained out of reach.

I read, I prowled my quarters, I plotted improbable escapes. My rooms were converted cellars, the windows far out of my reach, even when I stood on chairs or bookshelves. I memorised every scratch in the walls, every bit of unevenness in the floor. I could make my way through them blindfolded, but I couldn't find a way out. My days were punctuated by the movements of the guards above me, but I could never hear their voices.

She returned after a fortnight, pleasure mingling with the strain in her face. This time, she arrived in the evening, feeding me on roast beef and red wine.

"Why?" I asked. I hadn't touched the wine; perhaps I was simply desperate for conversation. "Why Holmes?"

In reply, she slid a sheaf of papers towards me, filled with equations and mathematical theory.

"I'll be curious to see how long this takes you," she said, and left me alone without another word.

It took me three days, going through the well-stocked shelves until I found her father's book.

That, too, was a link with Holmes. I read it carefully, recognising the source of my tutor's reptilian mind. Moriarty's work made me feel acutely like prey, and adrenaline kept me from sleep for a while.

"Your business managers have paid a generous ransom."

I didn't look up from the book I was pretending to read. "And whose body did they get in return?"

"I do enjoy your mind, Miss Russell," she said. "The girl's identity isn't important. She had your height and build, and the burns hid her features. I'm told the police have not yet recognised her dyed hair for what it is. And they're not likely to, since Holmes was not allowed to view the body."

She sat down on the chair opposite mine. I couldn't bring myself to look at her face.

"This sulking doesn't become you, Miss Russell," she said. She was never this gentle with her students.

"Mary," she said.

I raised my eyes.

"These games are beneath you," I said. "Patricia."

She gave me a look of approval, which scared me almost more than anything else.

She came to me again in mid-morning, and set a block of writing paper before me.

"I am going to dictate a letter." She handed me a pen, her own. "Listen carefully."

The letter was to Holmes, of course. Telling him that I was alive, that I was well, that he would do best to call off his search. That there was nothing else he could teach me, or that I would want to learn from him.

I put the pen down and looked up into her eyes.

"Write," she said. "You're in no position to negotiate, and Holmes will hardly take you at your word."

My hands were shaking by the time I signed it, and my signature was barely recognisable.

The guards brought me a shrivelled Christmas pudding with my lunch one day. I'd lost track of time.

I sent it back untouched.

Snow piled up against the glass, and my world became grey and semi-dark. Sometimes I would sleep for days, unable to drag myself away from the pillows. Other times, I would test myself to see how long I could go without sleeping. I contemplated a hunger strike, but I needed my strength. And I didn't want to test her mercy.

I was acutely aware that, by rights, I should have been dead. I was redundant, I was a liability. A guard might let something slip; someone might pass by this house, isolated as it obviously was.

I couldn't imagine why she kept me alive. Eventually, I gave in and asked her directly.

"What a waste of potential," she said, and walked out, locking the door behind her.

It was not her custom to visit me twice in a day, or on two consecutive days, but she returned late that night. I was still sitting where she had left me.

"Come," she said. Her coat fell open as she moved, and I saw the revolver in the pocket of her trousers.

So, I thought, this was it. Perhaps my question had triggered a wave of paranoia, which she would mistake for common sense.

She led me upstairs, through the empty house and outside. The cold hit me like a physical blow, and I staggered.

I was suddenly afraid.

But the air was crisp and fresh, even as my lungs froze and burnt with every breath. I hadn't realised how stuffy my cellar was. I had forgotten what the sky looked like, stars suspended over the snow-covered land.

I took a few tentative steps away from the house, and when she said nothing, I kept walking. There was no possibility of running away: we were in the middle of the Highlands, and utterly alone. I had only indoor clothes, and I was already freezing. I thrust my hands under my arms and breathed deeply. I felt like I was dying, and yet I was utterly alive.

She approached behind me, her heavy boots crunching over the snow.

"Happy birthday," she said.

"Thank you," I breathed, stupidly. I was shivering violently by now, and thinking longingly of my rooms, my blankets, my warm bed.

She removed her coat, and my eyes were on the revolver as she put it around my shoulders. So I was distracted as she took my face in her gloved hands and kissed me.

She was strong, and implacable, and I was only warm where she touched me.

Alone again, inside but cold. Burning where her mouth had touched mine, still wrapped in her coat. It smelt faintly of cigarettes and her soap. She was upstairs, I was sure. I'd know if she had left.

I made my numb way into the bathroom, and was surprised to find tears on my cheeks. For a moment, I thought of smashing the mirror with my hands and watching my blood drain into the basin. But that wasn't my way, and there were no high places in here.

Ill with shame and desire and grief, I thought about her revolver. Perhaps she had planned to kill me, but I couldn't imagine what had made her change her mind. I should have died, and instead-

I sat on the edge of the bath, wearing her coat and mourning my lost self.

The snow was melting when she came back to me, and I was almost shocked by the changes in her. Flesh was melting away; she was made of bone and tweed.

"Isn't it remarkable, how quickly a reputation unravels," she said, feeding me on scones and jam and tea.

"Are you going to make me ask, then?"

"He's slipping, Mary. In more ways than one. Even Watson can't save him." She toyed with her cup. "Of course, the doctor's time is limited."

My breath caught in my throat. She looked up.

"Frankly, Mary, I never expected this sentimental nonsense from you. An old man, whose primary purpose is to reflect his friend's glory-"

I pushed my chair back and fled, pacing my bedroom and trying to regain my equilibrium. She followed, watching me with a cool, analytical gaze.

When I could speak I said, "Please."

"Are you begging for his life?"

"Is that what you want?"

"The spectacle would be most amusing, but my mind is made up. My people are in place, and I won't change my plans now." She touched my face. "Not even for you."

I sank onto my bed, and didn't move until she was gone, locking the outer door behind her.

I managed to elude sleep for three days, reading endless books and grieving.

Sleep, when it came at last, was accompanied by the Dream. I woke with a crick in my neck from sleeping in an armchair, and sour vomit in the back of my throat. I didn't cry. Panic mingled with guilt in my face, and I thought about shards of mirror and the Pacific Ocean, and Uncle John.

When I had regained some semblance of control, I dressed myself and waited for the sun to rise.

When the guards opened the door, they found me sitting at the table, hands spread before me. I didn't know these men; she sent new guards every few weeks. The younger man wouldn't look me in the eye as he placed a tray on the opposite end of the table. I spoke to the older man, the one holding a gun at my head.

"Tell your boss I need to see her," I said.

He puffed at his cigarette, drew it from his mouth without letting his gun waver, and exhaled.

"I'll tell her," he said at last. "But she don't take orders from me. Or you."

"Just tell her."

She didn't come for two weeks, but I heard the car pull up on a still afternoon, and I was ready for her when she swept into my quarters.

"I think you've mistaken the fundamental precept underlying our relationship," she said. "_You_ do not give the orders."

I put my book down, but didn't stand up. "It was a request, not an order. And you came anyway."

"Call it curiosity, Mary."

I got to my feet and said, slowly, "My family died when I was fourteen, in an accident for which I was responsible. I live with that. But if you're going to make me watch while you carve Holmes into little pieces, well," my throat was suddenly tight, and I had to struggle to finish. "I'd rather you killed me now."

"It was a mistake to yoke yourself to Holmes. He's not worth dying for." She regarded me with a cool smile. "And in any case, I've no intention of killing you."

"Not cleanly, no. Slowly, perhaps."

She flinched.

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know. I can't imagine why I'm still alive. If I were you-" I paused, and a piece fell into place. "No. You're mad."

She raised her eyebrows, but there was a trace of approval in her face.

The sun was setting.

I laughed. "You think I'll just - let you teach me - learn your business - after all this time in here?"

"It was one of several ideas," she said.

"You're too late. Holmes taught me first. And better. You're too late."

"I know. Much too late."

Her face was a study in shadows. A death's head mask.

She caught my arm in her dry hand, but I kissed her first. For a moment, just a moment, she hesitated. Rightly, some part of my mind thought. I kissed her gently, until she responded.

Eventually she pushed me away and said, "You are far more innocent than you realise, Mary."

"I learn quickly."

She kissed me again, her hands tangling through my hair. Her hips were lean beneath the fabric of her clothing, but she was warm, and alive, and dangerous. Her teeth grazed my earlobe, and she whispered, "_He_ didn't teach you this."

She must have felt me flinch, but I said nothing. I caught her face in my hands and kissed her and said, "I never wanted him to."

She favoured me with one of her enigmatic smiles and led me to my bedroom.

She left me in the early hours of the morning. I pretended to be asleep, sprawled among bedclothes that still held her scent. When I was alone, I rolled over onto my back, feeling unfamiliar muscles twinge in dismay. I wondered what she would expect me to do next, and conversely, what she would want me to do.

In her absence, I read, and attempted to write. My guards provided me with paper and pens when I asked for them, but I feared that my thinking was too sophomoric and isolated.

My guards also brought me more newspapers, these covering the death of Doctor John Watson. I couldn't cry, but I found myself waking with the prayer for the dead on my lips. I didn't know who I was mourning: Uncle John, or Holmes. I wondered if she'd let me go when she'd finally had her revenge; I wondered what I would do if she did. My world consisted of three rooms and her.

I didn't think about her illness, or the energy with which she claimed possession of my youth and health.

She came a week after I read the obituaries, but I didn't let her touch me. We discussed mathematics, and she watched me through half-lidded eyes.

"This was in Holmes's mail."

I took the envelope from her hands, recognising with a quail the familiar childish printing.

"No."

"I thought it might interest you."

I sank down into my chair. The envelope had been opened; Holmes had held it. Read this letter. He'd know it was gone.

I hadn't been able to think about him since this dance with Patricia had begun. Holmes, Mrs Hudson, my parents: I had put them out of my head in waking hours. For protection, either theirs or mine, I wasn't sure.

I opened Jessica Simpson's letter with hands that hardly shook at all. It was as awful and painful as I'd anticipated; I'd never have imagined that a seven-year-old could express so much agony. I wondered what it had done to Holmes, but I wasn't going to ask.

"I want to send a reply," I said.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Holmes will hear of it." I couldn't read her face; was she disapproving, or merely distrustful?

"And you want to protect the little girl."

Jessica's letter was crumpled in my hands. "She shouldn't be involved."

"She's been involved all along, Mary." Now she was disappointed; I had failed to see the obvious. Or perhaps I simply hadn't wanted to consider it.

She let me write the letter, but I suspected it would never leave the house. She smiled, as if she was doing me a favour. I watched her leave, and counted the ways she could torture us.

The Dream woke me, again, and she was there. Standing in the doorway, smoking and looking thoughtful. I staggered into the bathroom, retching and struggling for breath. She followed me.

"The official reports into your family's death were very interesting," she said.

I froze.

"The cause of the accident was never formally stated. Of course, you were in no state to answer questions at the time of the inquest."

"I take it that my medical records were equally fascinating, then." My voice was harsh.

"Somewhat. Your psychiatrist's files were more secure, though. My people are still working on that." She pulled my damp hair out of my face, picking up my brush and smoothing the tangles. "Your family house is beginning to look rather decrepit. I understand your holdings have been returned to your family in Boston. They're doing rather well."

I wasn't interested in discussing money.

"Why were you in San Francisco?" I asked.

"Business. And curiosity. Your guilt is a powerful force, you know. Misplaced as it may or may not be." The brush scraped the back of my neck, and I shivered, and told myself it was just the sweat cooling on my skin. "I wonder what would happen if you were absolved?"

I swung around. "I don't want to have this discussion."

She laughed.

"You knew it would come up eventually. Were you jealous of your little brother?"

"No."

She looked amused, as if she'd caught me in a lie. I could have told her that my parents had never compared us, never given me any reason to envy him. I had never doubted their love; sometimes that certainty had kept me alive. And I wasn't about to share that with her.

"He was a little beast," I said, "but so was I."

"Two spoilt rich children." The image seemed to amuse her.

"Indulged. But we were given less freedom and more responsibility than most of our peers. My family was rather old fashioned in some ways."

But thankfully, she was no longer interested. She handed me my clothes and said, "Get dressed, Mary."

There was no revolver this time. Once again, the house was empty, and light was breaking over the eastern sky when we stepped outside. The air was crisp, cool but not unpleasant.

There was little enough to see: rocks, a few trees, clumps of heather. But she let me wander over to a low stone wall, and we sat in silence as the sun rose. She played with my hair and let me smoke one of her cigarettes. I'd lost the trick of it, and the smoke burnt my lungs. I felt utterly hollow inside, but the tobacco soothed my raw nerves.

It was a long time since I'd seen proper sunlight. My skin had become sallow, and my hands were softer than they'd been in years. I must have sighed, because she laughed softly and kissed my cheek. I took her arm as she led me inside.

She left her cigarettes behind, and I smoked them slowly. The guards brought more when they ran out, thrown on a tray with the bland food I ate when she was absent.

I had lost track of the days again, but it seemed like she was gone longer than ever before. I wondered if she had died, and if so, what arrangements she had made for me. Was I to be passed on to someone else, or would I simply remain here, until the money ran out and the guards left, and I starved to death alone?

I consoled myself with the thought of the mirror, and there were days when I couldn't look at it without seeing the sharp edges that didn't yet exist.

At other times, I considered hanging myself on my bed-sheets, or setting fire to the rooms, or drowning myself in the bath. My escape routes. I smoked, and considered my options, and reviewed everything that Holmes had taught me. Useless knowledge, now. I had been tested and I had failed, and I knew I would never escape this place alive.

When she finally came back to me, I was shocked by the change in her appearance. Gauntness was giving way to frailty, but her energies seemed undiminished. She greeted me with a firm kiss, and would not let me speak. Nor would she let me put the lights on, but every rib and jutting bone was revealed to my fingertips. Her usual clinical passion became raw and almost painful, and I wished desperately that I could simply ask what she was thinking.

She stayed with me, and that, too, was unusual.

"We'll be leaving soon," she breathed.

I opened my eyes. "'We'."

"Or did you think I'd keep you here forever?"

I sat up, pulling the blankets around me. "What have you done, Patricia?"

"Made arrangements."

She said nothing more, and eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep.

The journey south was tedious and silent. She was caught up in her own thoughts, and spoke only to give directions to her drivers. We changed cars several times, and spent a night in an otherwise empty inn where we were served by a couple who regarded Patricia with a mixture of reverence and fear.

Our route was so circuitous that we were almost in the city before I realised that our destination was London. I'd been distracted by the passing scenery, resplendent in the mid-morning light, and the novelty of being outside.

But once I had my bearings, I knew exactly where I was, and where we were going. And then the fear returned.

"Well," Patricia said as we pulled into Baker Street, "what do you think of the place?"

Older and more worn than I'd imagined, and I didn't think the bricks would hold any special psychic connections for me.

I closed my eyes as we came to a stop, wondering if, after all this time, the moment had come to make my escape. But she had her revolver, and I suspected she wouldn't be above using it on a public street. I climbed out of the car and she followed me inside.

"Not my most imposing property, of course," she said, leading me upstairs, "but it will serve its purpose."

We came to a sitting room, whose new carpets and wallpaper couldn't quite disguise the wear and tear of age. The scent of pipe tobacco did not linger in the air; my overriding impression was that a cat, or several, had been kept here in the recent past.

"How long do we have to wait?" I asked.

"That's not up to us." The revolver was in her hand. "Sit down, Mary."

The chair she had selected for me was positioned so that it, and its occupant, would be the first anyone saw upon entering. Her own seat was in the corner, where she could be fairly sure of remaining unnoticed for a moment. Long enough for her purposes, I suspected. She placed the revolver on a small table at her side, and we settled down to wait.

The hours passed. I smoked; she made desultory conversation, largely about mathematics, but with digressions into her recent activities, and her one-sided history with Holmes. I sat in silence, and wondered if it was a tragedy that such an agile mind had given way to insanity, or merely an inevitable result of her parentage and upbringing.

In mid-afternoon, she looked at her watch and said, "Not much longer, I should think. A child could have recognised the hints in my invitation."

"And then?"

"I wouldn't worry about that, Mary. It won't concern you."

I lit another cigarette, to distract myself from the revolver by her side.

Another half hour passed in silence.

There came a knock at the door, and one of her employees appeared.

"Five minutes, ma'am," he said. "Seen him myself."

"Is he alone?"

The man shrugged, either unsure or unwilling to commit to an answer.

I turned to find the revolver pointed at my head; her hand barely shook at all.

"You once asked why I was keeping you alive," she said, "and I must admit, I would have liked the opportunity to make something of you. My time, however, is running out, and your death will be a useful lesson in last-minute failure for Holmes."

"You can't seriously believe you can walk away from this."

"My dear Mary," there was nothing but madness in her smile, "I have no intention of surviving the afternoon."

I had spent months in a half-dream, hovering on the edge of events, swinging between overwhelming pain and protective numbness. Now fear was penetrating that armour, and with it came the desire to flee.

Or attack.

I was already moving before the thought was complete, and I hit her in a low tackle before she could react. The revolver went off, and I was distantly aware of plaster crumbling, but all I could think of was the surprise in her face, and the inexorable strength of her hands. She clawed for my eyes, but I turned away, and she caught a handful of hair instead. I half-sobbed, clinging to her hand, and she laughed.

"You're always full of surprises," she said, and beneath my fingers I felt her pull the trigger.

It took me a moment to realise the significance of the blood. It was everywhere: on my clothes, my face, my fingers. Endless quantities of blood pooling beneath her head. I let her limp hand fall, and the revolver skittered across the floor. I felt the wound in her neck (more blood in my fingernails, grotesquely warm and thick). I tried to breathe.

There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Holmes, I wondered, or one of her employees? Had they been warned to expect shots? Would they kill me instantly, or use me as a bargaining chip?

I was through the window, glass shattering around me, even as I realised that I couldn't be around to find out. I heard a voice, calling my name, and I almost cried out, but then I was falling, and landing.

For a moment I was stunned, then I became aware of the attention I had attracted, and I ran again. I fled the oncoming policeman, and the armed man who had once brought me a block of writing paper, and vanished into a network of alleyways and shadows.

My run slowed to a walk, and then to a limp, until the adrenaline finally faded and I realised that my arm was throbbing with pain and already discoloured, and I was covered in cuts and blood. Then I sank to my haunches and closed my eyes, until I could breathe again.

Some time later, footsteps approached. I didn't look up until he was standing in front of me, holding out a cigarette case. I took a cigarette with my right hand, put it in my mouth and allowed him to light it. He took one for himself, and we smoked in silence for some minutes, until he said, "Is that your blood, or hers?"

"Hers, mostly, I think." I watched the smoke hover in the air between us. "I think my arm is broken."

He knelt down to examine it. For a moment I froze - just a moment, but he noticed. Then I relaxed, and he ran a light hand over the swelling. Up close, I could see the new lines of strain and grief in his face; there was a worrying yellow cast to his eyes, and the irises were dull.

He noticed my attention and said, "I look worse than I am, Russell. Or did you think I'd give up so easily?"

"I hardly knew what to think. She played elaborate games."

"Of course."

He helped me to my feet and wrapped his own coat around my shoulders. I shivered.

"Three times," he said, doing up the buttons, "three times I was on the verge of cracking it. Twice, your relatives - your American relatives - interfered. I began to wonder if they were somehow involved." He chuckled mirthlessly. "A charming distraction. Your aunt began to seem almost pleasant by comparison."

"And the third time?"

His face became closed. "Watson."

"Oh."

His hand closed around my good hand, and we began the long, slow trudge back towards civilisation.

There were arrests and court cases and endless grey morning spent in legal offices, as my solicitors and I went through the tedious business of effecting my resurrection. My American family were reluctant to put my father's property back into my possibly-incapable hands. I wasn't especially concerned with the money, but I wanted independence. Instead, I was returned to my aunt's custody, and we avoided each other as much as possible.

One morning, I woke early, shaking the lingering tentacles of a nightmare from my mind. My arm still throbbed in its cast, but I ignored the pills beside my bed. I made my way into the bathroom, where I found a pair of scissors, old but still sharp.

There was a pile of hair in the sink when my aunt found me. She stood in the doorway, frowning. I met her reflection's eyes through a ragged curtain of hair.

"If your mother could see you now," she said.

I looked away.

There was a whisper of fabric behind me, and I closed my eyes. She took the scissors from my hand and began to snip, efficiently and neatly. Strands of hair fell around me.

"It will have to be very short if we're to get it even."

"It will grow back."

She finished the job without another word, and left me alone.

Holmes froze when he saw me; whether in surprise at my haircut or my presence in his laboratory, I didn't know. We stared at each other for a moment, and then he said, "Good evening, Russ. Do you often sit in my house in the dark?"

"I was thinking."

"Of course." He cleared some papers off his chair, threw them on the bench and sat down. "I take it you told Mrs Hudson that you're leaving."

I raised my eyebrows.

"She dusted the tops of the bookshelves, scrubbed the kitchen pantry and swept out the spare bedroom before she left this afternoon. An unusual amount of vigorous cleaning for a half-day. And," he fixed me with a stern glare, "Will said her eyes were red, and she's not usually allergic to dust."

"I said I'd be back. If not by Christmas, certainly by next summer."

"She missed you, Russell."

"I know." I desperately wanted a cigarette, but naked flame was never a good idea in that room.

"On the other hand, I was beginning to wonder if you were planning to tell us at all."

"I was waiting for my moment." I raked my hand through my hair, enjoying the freedom from knots and plaits and pins. "How did you find out? I thought I was being reasonably discreet."

"You were discreet. Your aunt, farm manager and cook were not."

"Ah."

I let the silence stretch out between us.

Eventually Holmes said, "I see you've been going through my mail as well. You know, I'm beginning to take a strong dislike to coming home and finding my  
correspondence laid open to the world."

The little pile of letters, with their insinuations and manipulations and outright lies, lay on the bench where he had thrown them.

"I was tempted to burn them," I said.

"Feel free. They'd be dangerous in the hands of a blackmailer."

They were dangerous enough in his hands, I thought. She had taken the tiny details that I had hoped to carry to my grave, and made them tawdry and false. A blessing and a betrayal: it was easy to dismiss them as the allegations of a sadistic madwoman, but I didn't want to lie to Holmes. I wasn't sure I was capable of it. There was a space there, in the silence between truth and lies, and for the moment, I was willing to pretend it was sanity.

Anyway, he had the decency not to ask.

Instead he said, "I also had an interesting exchange with a Doctor Leah Ginzberg, of San Francisco."

I looked up.

"She had noticed my name mentioned in association with her former patient, one Mary Russell, and was wondering if there was some connection with an attempted burglary. A person or persons unknown had broken into her office and gone through her case notes and records."

"But nothing was taken."

"The alarm was raised in time."

I didn't know what to say, except for an inane, "It must have been difficult."

He said nothing.

"I keep looking back, and thinking that I could have done more to free myself. Found some way out" I wanted to stop, but the words were spilling out unbidden. "Everyone is telling me how lucky I am, but they won't look me in the eye. I've changed."

"Considerably."

"I just cannot persuade myself that this is over. Even after-" Now I had to stop, overwhelmed by the memory of her thick, warm blood under my hands. "This isn't over, it just continues the memories, the dreams" A twinge of pain in my broken arm made me shudder. "I've failed so badly," I said.

Holmes shifted, and to my amazement, he touched my hand.

"The failure was not yours," he said.

"Don't, Holmes. I just need reality."

His hand wrapped around mine, warm and dry and reassuringly solid. Demanding nothing.

We sat in silence for a long time, lost in our separate thoughts. Mrs Hudson returned from her afternoon out, but she didn't disturb us. The clock downstairs chimed midnight, then one, then two.

Holmes said, "Mycroft will ease the way if you wish to return to Oxford."

"I don't know. I'm still thinking about that."

"Of course."

Some time after three o'clock I said, "You would be welcome to visit me. If you wish."

He chuckled in the darkness, but didn't answer. I didn't really expect him to.

"I'll miss you," I said, in the final hour before the sun rose.

He squeezed my hand in response, but thankfully didn't ask me to stay. I would have agreed to anything he requested of me, which was half the reason I needed to leave.

He got to his feet. "Come," he said. "Unless you want to stay for breakfast"

"No. Thank you."

I stood up, and for a moment we contemplated each other in the dim, dusty light. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been in this room; I was unaccountably reminded of my prison. With a muffled cry, that might have been a sob, I buried my face in his shoulder and closed my eyes.

He offered no empty words of comfort, for which I was grateful. He simply held me in silence, and released me when I pulled away.

For a second, I was tempted to stay. To submerge myself again. To accept the possibilities offered in his grey eyes.

It was an effort to step back, to adjust my spectacles and say, evenly, "I'll write."

"I know, Russ."

We parted without another word, but my heart was lighter as I made my way over the downs, with the sun rising around me. There was a hint of heat in the air, a taste of the summer to come, and I was alive and awake and warm where he had touched me.

_end_

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